Page 103 of Obsession Under the Southern Stars

“Well that’s a mistake right there,” Dad says. “You’re never supposed to do that, Joel, you should have known better than that. What if there had been something wrong with your octopus?”

“You taught us to always put others before ourselves,” I point out. “I didn’t even think about it.”

It’s true, and he can’t argue with that. He frowns, breaking open a scone and scooping jam and then cream onto each half. “Even so, it was a dangerous thing to do.”

“It was,” Zoe says, “and he still did it unthinkingly. And all those records he holds for freediving—your son is absolutely amazing.”

I blink, unused to receiving such a brazen compliment. Mum smiles as she bites into her scone. Dad just looks amused.

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” he scolds. “He won’t be able to get his head out of the door.”

“He deserves every ounce of praise I can give him,” Zoe says. “He’s saved my life twice this week. You’ve done such a fantastic job bringing him up. He’s a real credit to you, sir.”

Dad’s expression softens as he looks at her. “That’s a nice thing to say.”

She shrugs with her characteristic nonchalance. “I mean it. He’s a sweetie.”

I love the way she’s so open when she’s like this, so warm and friendly and unafraid of what other people think of her. Ifonly she would be as open with her personal life, we’d have no problems at all.

“What did you think of his award?” Zoe asks. “Wasn’t that fantastic?”

Mum’s eyebrows rise. “What award?”

My eyes meet my father’s. Clearly, he didn’t tell her.

“He won the ANZAS Archaeological Fieldwork Award,” Zoe says brightly. “For his work at the Rangitoto Ships Graveyard.”

“Joel,” Mum says, “why didn’t you tell us?”

Zoe glances at me, no doubt waiting for me to reveal that I told my father, and it’s his fault that Mum doesn’t know.

But I just shrug and say, “I forgot.”

“You forgot,” Mum scolds. “Honestly, Joel.”

“He’s the youngest ever winner of the award,” Zoe says. “Oh stop it,” she adds as I glare at her. “You should be shouting about it from the rooftops.”

“We don’t believe in boasting about our accomplishments in this house,” Dad points out. “It’s not exactly humble.”

“True,” Zoe says. “That’s what he’s got me for.” She wrinkles her nose at me and winks, then has another bite of her scone, leaving a whipped-cream mustache on her top lip.

“When’s your interview?” Dad asks me.

“Monday,” I reply.

“It’s a good position,” Dad says. “Have you asked Fraser to run through the interview with you?”

I try not to bristle at the thought that he thinks I need Fraser’s help. “We’ve talked about it.”

“It sounds like a great job,” Zoe says, “but it’s a real shame that it takes you away from the thing you love doing most—diving and going on excavations.”

“He’s twenty-eight,” Dad says, “and it’s about time he settled down and stopped gallivanting around the country. We’re hoping you can help there, too, Zoe.”

“Yes,” she says, “he’s a terrible gallivanter.”

I give her a wry look and eat my scone.

“So tell us about yourself,” Mum says, “we know you work at the museum with Elora. You’re an archaeologist, too?”

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